


I should have never fallen for you

by fawna



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Prom, a bit of angst a bit of fluff, a bit of murphy being a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 22:39:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13063641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawna/pseuds/fawna
Summary: “Who’s Bellamy taking?”Bellamy shrugs. Prom is—well, it’s just not a big deal to him. It’s not that he’s not looking forward to it, because he is. It will probably be enjoyable, and the after party (which has been in planning for longer than the actual prom) sounds great.  But he’s not wasting his time thinking about it. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I’ll figure it out.”“That’s not good enough,” Murphy says, that damn grin still on his face. “You up for some money, Blake?”OR: Murphy dares Bellamy to ask the Princess a.k.a his nemesis to prom. Bellamy can't resist a good cash prize.





	I should have never fallen for you

**Author's Note:**

> long time no see. whoops. oh well, enjoy this fuckery.

“So who’s everyone asking to prom?” Murphy asks, mouth full of food.

Echo scrunches her nose up at him, a clear look of disgust taking over her face. “None of these babies, that’s for sure.”

“Wait what?” Murphy bursts, a piece of food flying from his mouth. “I thought you and Blake were a package deal.”

Bellamy tries not to react too much, but—he kind of thought the same. It’s not like they’re dating or anything, he doesn’t even particularly _like_ Echo. But they’ve hooked up a few times, and most people would assume they would be going to prom together.

Echo’s lips stretch into a smug smile. “I’m taking someone from out of school. He’s way older and hotter than all of you combined.”

“Older than all of us combined?” Murphy asks, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “What—is he like 80?”

Echo pegs a stick of carrot at his face as Murphy ducks, laughing. “I meant that about the hotter part, you dumbass.”

“Do we know him?” Miller asks, sounding more bored than curious.

“I think we’re all ignoring the most important question,” Murphy interjects before Echo can answer, still grinning wide, Echo’s carrot stick now tucked behind his ear. “Who’s Bellamy taking?”

Bellamy shrugs. Prom is—well, it’s just not a big deal to him. It’s not that he’s not looking forward to it, because he is. It will probably be enjoyable, and the after party (which has been in planning for longer than the actual prom) sounds great. But he’s not wasting his time thinking about it.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I’ll figure it out.”

“That’s not good enough,” Murphy says, that damn grin still on his face. “You up for some money, Blake?”

Bellamy narrows his eyes at him and Murphy makes an exaggerated attempt at looking innocent, fluttering eyelashes and everything. “Always,” he eventually settles on, stretching out the word.

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you take the princess to prom.”

Echo barks out a laugh, rocking back on her chair, while Bellamy just scowls at Murphy.

“No.”

“Eighty.”

“No, Murphy. I’m not doing that.”

“She’ll probably go with Wells anyway,” Echo says with a roll of her eyes.

Eventually the conversation steers to Murphy badgering Miller on whether he’s going to stop being a wimp and ask Bryan to prom, but Bellamy can’t really concentrate.

There’s something about the princess— _Clarke—_ that he’s never been able to wrap his head around. He’s known her, or at least known _of_ her, since they were both six, starting at the local primary school. She’s not quiet, not at all, but she’s reserved, keeps to herself. She has one friend, Wells Jaha. A few more if you count the teachers. (Which no one really should.) But despite it all, there’s something intriguing about her. Almost everyone has an opinion on her, ranging from adoration to contempt.

She first grabbed everyone’s attention at eleven years old when it was clear she was… _developing_ faster than the other girls (yeah, it’s gross and creepy. He knows), and since then it’s been near impossible for her to fade into the background. She aces every test and appears on the local news every now and then, talking about volunteer programs and shit. She’s annoyingly perfect and Bellamy loves to hate her.

If he had to put a label on their relationship, he would have to say that she’s the closest thing to an enemy he has. He purposefully starts arguments with her in class, usually riling her up with unnecessary comments under his breath, low enough that the teacher can’t hear. He normally keeps it up until she goes slightly red in the face, her hands curled into tight fists as she spits her retorts to him in angry whispers.

He also sometimes wonders what it would be like to kiss her and to have her kiss him back. Where would she put her hands? Would she be as angry and passionate about kissing him as she is fighting him?

What? Look, he’s not blind. She’s attractive. And that’s all it is—physical attraction. He’s not going to ask her to prom.

+

He really doesn’t consider taking Clarke to prom. Murphy was just being a dick when he suggested it—he probably wouldn’t even pay up if Bellamy did it. He’s thinking of asking Roma, because he heard that she’s into him and that’s about all the incentive he needs. But then Octavia comes home from athletics training.

The training is definitely an indulgence. It’s expensive, which kind of makes sense considering that Octavia gets to learn pretty much every athletics skill, with javelin and hurdles being her favourites. He got her spikes for free from a guy that lives across the road whose son used to be a sprinter. She doesn’t have the fancy clothes that the other kids have, but she seems to get along fine with her Target cotton shorts and various brightly coloured singlets. And she really likes it, making its weekly costs easier to swallow.

But today she comes home and its clear that she’s a little down.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, not used to this kind of attitude following training.

“I wore a hole through my spikes,” Octavia answers and he can hear her trying to mask how upset she is. “It’s okay though, I can just wear joggers or something.”

It was bound to happen at some point. The rubber had already started to peel away from the heel and the spikes were pretty blunt, but he hoped they might last even another year.

“I’ll look on Ebay later, okay? We’ll find you something,” he reassures her.

“No, Bell. It’s fine. Really.”

And maybe it is fine, maybe she can just wear normal joggers. But he doesn’t want her to. This is the one thing she gets to do and she’s _good_ at it. He’s sure he can find her some used shoes for cheap online. She deserves that much.

He shakes his head. “No, O. Just let me do this, okay?”

He scours the internet that night, trying to find something for her. The truth is, though, he doesn’t really like ordering online—he just doesn’t trust it. Yeah, he’s a geriatric technophobe blah, blah, blah, he’s heard it all from O. Instead, he heads into the mall after school the next day without telling O. There’s track spikes for $200 for the ridiculous, but the rest seem to be around $50 to $60. Which would be fair, if he weren’t struggling to pay the electricity bill. He considers asking his mother for money, for only a brief moment, but their only attachment to their mother is that the government thinks she’s still living with them. So basically he’s screwed—and the worst part? He knows how he could fix it.

+

“Would you seriously pay me to take the princess to prom?”

Bellamy and Murphy are tucked away is a small square piece of land, invisible to the rest of the school. It was meant to be a veggie patch, a few years ago, but no one in the school gave a shit about it. Surrounded by three brick walls, it doesn’t receive enough light and so all of the herbs and plants have dried up and have since been run into the ground by Murphy’s boots. Murphy takes a drag from his vape pen and Bellamy aggressively says nothing about that life choice.

“Why? You considering it?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy grumbles. “I might if you pay.”

“Fifty bucks.”

“What? You said eighty the other day.”

“Forty.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Murphy rolls his shoulders. “You sound a little desperate, Blake.”

“I’m not… I just think it would be funny.”

“I’m not stupid, Blake.”

“Look just—sixty? It _would_ be funny.”

“God, this is like charity. Fine, sixty. But I expect the real deal. I don’t want you to walk in with her and then ignore her all night.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bellamy huffs. “Whatever.”

Murphy cackles. “Shit man, this is going to be so embarrassing for her.”

Bellamy’s stomach sinks but he just swallows hard and grins devilishly. “Yeah.”

They shake on it.

+

It isn’t hard to find Clarke Griffin. He goes to the library at lunch and finds her leaning over the returns desk, chatting with the librarian. He almost rolls her eyes—she’s a goddamn stereotype.

“Hey, uh,” he begins, trying to charm the librarian with nervousness, “where can I find texts on the Incas?”

“Oh, Clarke can show you, dear,” the librarian answers, which was basically what he was hoping for.

He flashes her a smile. “Great. Thanks.”

Clarke grins sweetly as she starts walking but her smile dissolves when they are no longer in the librarian’s view.

“Couldn’t just go to the history section? It’s not that hard to figure out,” she snipes.

“Not all of us live here,” he says, but injects significantly less venom than normal.

Clarke just rolls her eyes.

“Well here we are,” she says, spinning on her heal. He has enough time to stop but lets himself ‘accidently’ bump into her a little. “Under the big history sign. What a concept.”

“Thanks. Do you have any recommendations?”

She squints at him—seeming to try and figure out if he’s messing with her or not. “I, uh, I’ve only read this one,” she says, pulling out _The Last Days of the Incas_. “It was kind of interesting I guess, but I don’t know how accurate it is.”

“Thanks, princess,” he says, almost soft, before disappearing off towards the checkout desk.

+

He finds her again in the afternoon after the bell rings, in the library still, two textbooks open and her fingers typing away furiously on her laptop. She has thick framed glasses perched on her nose, the one’s she’s always pushing back up in class. (Not that he notices.) He slumps down into the seat across from her and can feel her eyes on him, assessing.

“There are plenty of free tables.”

“Maybe I just like your company.”

“You don’t.”

He flicks his eyes up to hers from behind his book, the one she recommended, and smirks. “You’d be surprised, princess.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “What are you doing here after school anyway? Don’t you and your delinquent buddies have better things to do? Like smoke cigarettes and talk about how much better you are than everyone else?”

“You think we’re better than everyone else?” he grins.

“No, I think that _you_ think that you’re—you know what? Forget it.”

He grins at her again before burying his head back in his book. He’s not really taking anything in; more just scanning words without pulling any meaning from them. He’s more distracted by her loud typing, the way she keeps blowing wisps of hair from her face, and those damn glasses that keep sliding down her nose. She’s hard to ignore.

“So—” he starts.

“Nope. I’m working.”

He grins without really meaning to. “I’m sure you can multitask.”

“It has actually been proven that the human brain can’t effectively multitask.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realise I was talking to an encyclopedia.”

“Well now you know. Please stop.”

A laugh bursts out of him and she looks up, blinking in surprise, before she smiles wryly at him.

“I was just trying to make conversation.”

She huffs and sets her glasses aside. “Okay, go. What do you want from me?”

He suddenly feels stupidly nervous. It’s just a question but—it’s also more than that. “Are you going to prom with anyone?”

She shrugs. “No.”

“Wait—not even Wells?” It’s the answer he was hoping for but he still kind of thought Echo would be right about the whole Wells thing.

She rolls her eyes. “No. Not even Wells.” She pauses for a moment, considering. “He’s going with Monty.”

“Oh r—I didn’t know he was—”

“You don’t know him,” she interrupts, but her tone isn’t harsh.

“No, I guess I don’t.”

“So, I figure I’m supposed to ask you who you’re going with now. However, I worry that I’m feeding into a trap where you ask me just so you can gloat about your own date.”

He laughs. “Was that you asking who I’m going to prom with?”

She shrugs, but there’s a mischievous glint to her eyes.

“That’s why I was asking you, actually. I don’t have a date.”

“ _Yet,_ ” she corrects. “We all know that won’t last long.”

“Yeah, I was thinking you could be my date.”

She barks out a laugh so loud she gets shushed for it. “Yeah, ‘cause _that_ would be a great idea.”

“I think so,” he says, all conviction.

She blinks at him, clearly confused, before her brows draw into a frown. “Stop messing with me, Blake.”

“No, I’m being serious,” he says, moving forward in his chair and trying to get her to look at him.

“Well then clearly you’ve lost your mind.”

“Who are you going to go with then?”

“Myself,” she frowns.

“Look, Clarke. I know it seems crazy but I’ve been thinking about this for a while, y’know. I really respect you—” she snorts and he smiles ruefully at her, “I just suck at showing it. Yeah, there’s probably other girls I could ask but I want to take _you_.”

She sighs and leans back in her chair. She squints at him for so long he gets uncomfortable and has to shift in his chair a little. “Fine. Whatever. We can walk in together and if you want to tell people you’re my date, go ahead. I might even talk to you. But I’m not holding your hand and I’m certainly not having sex with you—” He barks out a surprised laugh. “—Deal?”

“Deal,” he grins, and he may hold her hand for a little too long when they shake on it.

+

“So what colour tie should I be getting?” he asks, leaning beside her locker.

“Black. It’ll bring out the colour of your soul,” she quips with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t see how this is my decision.”

“We have to match. What colour is your dress?”

She heaves a bunch of thick books from her locker and he reaches out to help her but she swats his hands away. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Wait what?”

It’s just under a month and a half until prom, which sounds like forever but it really isn’t. He knows Echo bought her dress seven months ago and is in full on Stress Mode because she hasn’t found the perfect shoes. Even Miller has sorted out his suit and he’s the king of procrastination.

“I have plenty of dresses. I’ll pick one on the night or something.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Oh, excuse me Bellamy ‘Prom Guru’ Blake.”

“Come on. I’ll come to yours after school or something and help you pick a dress. I really need to sort out my tie situation.”

“That actually sounds like the worst idea ever,” she says, shoving her locker closed.

She’s probably right. But he needs to make sure she doesn’t flake out on him. He doesn’t need her having a breakdown on prom night because she doesn’t actually like any of the dresses she owns.

“We’re going to prom together. You should probably get used to my company.”

She turns to him, her brows drawn down, as she scrutinises him.

“Bellamy, do you have a crush on me?” she asks bluntly, her eyes piercing.

He blinks, shocked, for a moment before he splutters out a, “what?”

“Do you have a crush on me?”

“I, uh—no? Why?” he manages.

“I don’t understand your motives and I don’t want to lead you on. But if you’re so concerned about your tie you can come to my place. But just so we’re clear—my mum will be home and my bedroom door will stay wide open. Okay?”

“Okay,” he answers, dazed.

“You can come over on Saturday. I get back from soccer at 1:30 so any time after that. My house is the one with the white fence across from Wiselan Park,” she says, turning on her heel and rushing off.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. Prom was going to be one hell of a night.

+

He ends up asking Octavia to come to Clarke’s with him to make it clear he’s not just trying to get in her pants. Octavia, way too eager, agrees and so she rides her bike alongside him as he walks to Clarke’s place.

“I can’t believe you’re taking Clarke Griffin to prom,” she says, almost teasingly, as she bunny hops onto the curb and then back down.

“And why’s that?”

“She’s _Clarke Griffin_. She’s basically untouchable,” she says, clearly not paying much attention to their conversation as she jumps back onto the curb again. Show off. “And you hate her.”

“I don’t—”

“ _Ugh, O, have I told you how annoying Clarke is_?” she imitates in a droning low voice. “ _Like, I don’t even know why the teachers like her so much. She probably only gets good grades because_ —”

“I _get it_ ,” he groans. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

She looks over her shoulder to raise an eyebrow at him. “Bullshit.”

“Language.”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” she choruses as she quickly pedals ahead.

+

Clarke’s house is, as expected, gigantic. A tall, white brick fence lines the property and he has to buzz in at her gate before they can continue down her driveway. And her driveway even ends in one of those turning bays that he thought only fancy hotels had.

Clarke opens the door wearing big red basketball shorts, fuzzy socks and a large sweater. She kind of looks like a walking disaster (and really—can’t she afford a stylist or something?) but still manages to look adorable at the same time. Well, not _adorable_ but—

Whatever.

After he and Octavia kick off their dirty sneakers she grabs a packet of chips and leads them up to her room. Her wardrobe is about the size of his bathroom, which is honestly just depressing.

She waves her hand towards a row of garments in plastic covers. “That’s all of my fancy stuff. I was just going to wear one of those,” she says through a mouthful of chips.

Octavia, oblivious to how strange this all is, starts looking through the dresses with greedy hands. The dresses are all… well they’re just not nice. Bellamy might not know much about girl’s fashion, but he does know that these are some ugly dresses. They’re all tulle, gaudy numbers, covered in sequins and rhinestones. Octavia seems to be thinking the same thing.

“You’re not going to be able to see your boobs _at all_ in these dresses,” she complains.

Clarke actually chokes on a chip and looks up at Bellamy with wide eyes as if asking for help. Bellamy just shrugs.

“I didn’t realise that was an issue,” she manages.

“When _I_ get boobs,” Octavia declares, “I’m going to make sure everyone can see ‘em.”

“These dresses are classy.”

“I think you mean ugly.”

Clarke’s jaw drops open a little and she looks back up at Bellamy. “They aren’t the best,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“You’re kidding. Look—what about this one?” she asks, pulling out a power blue dress with a square neckline and full skirt.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything and Octavia scrunches up her nose. “Seriously? I always get compliments in this,” she whines.

“What? From sixty year olds?” Octavia asks bluntly.

Clarke huffs and slides it back on the rack. “That doesn’t make them any less valid,” she mumbles to herself.

“I don’t get it. Why don’t you just get a new one? You have the money,” Octavia says bluntly and Bellamy’s glad she’s taking control in this situation—Clarke would have bitten his head off by now.

“I have a very busy schedule,” Clarke shrugs.

“That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard. Bellamy can just take you shopping. It’ll be a bonding experience.”

She says, “I’d rather not,” at the same time he says, “That sounds like a bad idea.”

Octavia groans and walks back into Clarke’s bedroom so she can throw herself onto the mattress. She has a flare for the dramatic. (She gets it from Bellamy.) “You are both pathetic.”

“Seriously, Octavia,” Clarke says. “I have stuff to do. I’ll wear one of these dresses. It’ll be fine.”

“Do you want to look like the princess they all think you are?” Octavia asks, too harshly, and Bellamy can see hurt quickly flash over Clarke’s face before she tries to cover it.

“O,” Bellamy growls warningly, his hand unintentionally coming to rest comfortingly over Clarke’s shoulder.

“No, it’s okay,” Clarke says, and he squeezes her arm gently when he can detect the bite of anger in her words. “I don’t care what they think of me, Octavia. That’s not my problem.”

“Fine,” Octavia sighs and he can hear the slightest bit of surrender in her tone. “But are these dresses really _you,_ Clarke?”

Clarke falters slightly and he can feel her loosing tension in her arms under his palms. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Do you feel confident in them? Do they make you feel good?” Octavia presses as she sits up and he can see that trademark Octavia Blake Fire in her eyes. “Or do you feel like a doll? Or a little girl playing dress ups?”

Clarke deflates further and Bellamy drops his hand from her arm, not remembering how it got there in the first place. “I don’t know,” she answers.

Octavia flicks her eyes up to Bellamy, something like triumph in them, before she looks back to Clarke. “Then I think you’ve just answered the question.”

+

 

 

“You’re actually the worst,” he tells Octavia as he shoves his wallet into his back pocket.

Octavia, who is using a permanent marker to draw on the rubber soles of her sneaker, looks up at him innocently. “Why’s that?”

“You know why,” he says with a huff. “I don’t even like shopping. Or Clarke Griffin. And, because of you, now I have to deal with those two things _at the same time_.”

“Oh, forgive me for thinking you might actually want to spend time with the person you asked to the biggest day of your life,” she retorts with a roll of her eyes.

“Prom isn’t the biggest day of my life.”

“Of your teenage life,” she amends. He also disagrees but doesn’t bother voicing it. “I’m _sor-ry_ for trying to help.”

Clarke managed to fit in shopping with him between a charity bake sale and her volunteer shift at a disability care centre on Sunday. (And honestly, it’s like she lives her life just to make everyone else look bad.) He waits on the curb in front of his house, his feet tapping against the road and his stomach churning. This is a dumb idea. How are they supposed to be civil for this long? What if she decides after this that going to prom together is a really stupid thing to do? It’s only a matter of time, right? —They don’t get along, they’re certainly not _friends_ , and he’s just dreading the day she realises that.

She picks him up in a sleek sedan that looks like it’s barely touched the ground. He has to close his door twice before he actually does it properly because he’s so scared of slamming it too hard. It’s the kind of thing she would normally roll her eyes about or tease him for, but she seems too stiff and uncomfortable in this new situation with him. That makes two of them.

He makes small talk for a while, asking questions with answers he doesn’t really care for like—‘how was the bake sale?’ and ‘did you earn much money?’. Clarke, for her part, barely engages, making it all the more hard for him. Eventually the silence becomes too much.

“Do you have an aux?” he asks.

She frowns over at him, making it the first time she’s looked him directly in the eyes since he got in her car. “Was that even English?”

He laughs and he can see the sound makes her visibly relax. “An aux. It’s a cord. You can play music from your phone with it.”

“Uh, maybe? I wouldn’t know what it looks like.”

He laughs again. “If you haven’t bought one, you don’t have one. I can’t believe you don’t know what an aux cord is.”

“Hey!” she defends but she’s grinning and this is good: this is more familiar territory for them. “Not all of us are technology geeks.”

“Clarke, I only just found out that Internet Explorer is bad or whatever,” he says and she snorts. “I’m no ‘technology geek’. I don’t even have a car. But even I still know what an aux is.”

“I don’t listen to music in the car.”

“Are you kidding? Who doesn’t listen to music in the car? Next thing you know you’ll be telling me that you think those dangly things people attach to their rear-view mirrors are cool.”

“Well, sometimes—”

“Clarke, no!” he cuts her off, laughing and she starts laughing too.

They bicker for the rest of the trip and his cheeks hurt from grinning by the time they pull up at the mall. He doesn’t even notice that they never put on music.

+

Bellamy hates shopping, and all it takes is a weaving through people who are more focused on themselves than anyone else and being watched by overly eager sales assistants to make him remember that fact. At least with Octavia she just wants to buy juice and stare at rows of running shoes and dirt bikes that they’ll never be able to afford. But Clarke apparently hates shopping too, which somehow makes it worse.

“Lets try this place,” Bellamy hedges, tugging at her elbow a little.

“No, I don’t think I’ll like anything in there,” she states, pulling away, which has basically been her response to every shop they’ve gone past.

“Nope,” he decides for her, grabbing her hand and pulling her inside.

Clarke barely looks at the dresses, just runs her fingers along the racks and makes a terrible attempt at pretending she’s actually inspecting them. Bellamy groans.

“C’mon, Clarke, seriously? I can tell you’re not looking at any of them.”

She shrugs, playing with the skirt of a pale pink dress. “They’re not really my style, that’s all.”

“And you can tell that by just looking at the side of them?” he asks, raising a sceptical brow. “This is the biggest celebration of your school life. Don’t you want to be wearing a bomb dress?”

“What a girl wears to her prom is not the most important thing in the world,” she says, prim, and he just shakes his head, laughing to himself.

“I know, Clarke, that’s not what I said. All I know is that I’m going to try damn hard to look my best, even if I can’t afford a new suit. It’s not just a girl thing. You might think that what you wear isn’t important, but when you’re standing there in an awesome dress feeling like and absolute fucking boss, you try telling me that it wasn’t worth it.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re great at speeches?” she asks, grinning up at him, her smile only a little bit mocking.

“Are _you_ telling me that I’m great at speeches?” he teases back.

She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments, Blake. It’s unbecoming.”

“Then stop distracting me. You. Dress. Go.”

She pauses for a moment before, “Um—red,” she says, not really looking him in the eye. “I want to wear red.”

He doesn’t even think before saying, “red would definitely be your colour.”

“Thanks,” she says, and it almost looks like she’s blushing.

A sales assistant ends up helping them find a bunch of dresses because Bellamy and Clarke are basically clueless, and Clarke shuts herself away in the dressing room with them. Bellamy sits on an uncomfortable stool (a separate sales assistant jokes to him about it being the ‘boyfriend chair’ and Bellamy makes an awkward comment about heteronormativity because he’s great at socialising) and waits.

“Bellamy, I look _so_ good in this,” comes Clarke’s voice when she’s on about dress three (and hour twenty).

“Show me,” he says, standing outside her door.

“No, you have to wait until prom.”

“That’s not a thing,” he says, trying the door handle, already knowing it will be locked. “Let me in.”

“Patience, Blake. Sit down and shut up. You’re not seeing it.”

When Clarke comes back outside (hour twenty-three), she’s back in her jeans and sweater but she has a dress draped over one arm and a huge grin on her face so he’s not all that disappointed.

“So, do you have a red tie?” she asks and he assumes she’s going for sarcastic but she still hasn’t stopped smiling so it’s not really working for her.

“Yeah, princess, I have a red tie.”

 

They end up having to run back to her car because they lost track of time and she’s starting work soon. It’s actually pretty great though, because apparently Clarke gets extreme road rage when she’s in a hurry and Bellamy, who loves the chance to get angry at basically anything, gets caught up in the hype and yells along with her. It probably says something about them that they get such enjoyment from yelling, but if she’s not going to question it, he won’t either.

She drops him off with a hurried ‘ _goodbye_ ’ and ‘ _thanks, Bellamy’_. All in all, it wasn’t as bad as he was expecting.

+

“So, you’re seriously going to prom with Clarke?” Miller asks.

They’re hanging out at the skate park and have gotten to that tired point where they’re kind of just rolling back and forth along the bowl with little finesse. It’s just the two of them—like always, they invited Murphy and Echo and, like always, neither of them wanted to hang out. That’s the thing about their group—outside of school, Bellamy and Miller are the only one’s that actually like each other. Echo is in with the popular group from Grounders, another local high school, and she prefers hanging out with them (and then posting photos on every social media platform of them together). And Murphy—well, Murphy doesn’t seem to really like people at all.

Bellamy shrugs. “Yeah, I am.”

Miller stops at the top of the bowl and shoots Bellamy a look that’s almost stern. “Is this just ‘cause of the money?”

If Murphy or Echo were around, he’d probably say yes. But they’re not so, “would you believe we actually get along?”

Miller just raises his eyebrows, looking sceptical. Bellamy huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, I know. But,” he shrugs and looks down at his feet, watching his board glide across the cement so that he doesn’t have to make eye contact with Miller, “I think, at the end of this, we could be friends.”

“Friends? Yeah, sure, call it that,” he says with a devious smirk.

Something about what Miller’s implying makes Bellamy’s stomach clench but he elects to ignore it. “Please tell me more, Miller the Romantic. We all know your taking Harper as your beard.”

“You’re dreaming, Blake.”

+

“So, uh,” Clarke starts, sounding almost nervous, “Wells and Monty want me to share a limo with them to prom and,” she clears her throat, “they said you could come if you want. You don’t—I would pitch in and pay for you but, like, I told them that you have your own friends and you probably don’t want to ride with us. But, yeah, I’ll be going with them.”

They’re hanging out at the library and somehow this has become somewhat of a routine for them. He goes there in the afternoon every now and again. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they just study or read in silence. Either way it’s just _nice_. He really meant what he said to Miller—he does think they could be friends. They seem well on their way to it already. She just puts him at ease.

He smiles a little and puts her out of her misery; “You would pay for my share?”

“Yeah,” she says, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’d pay yours.”

It made him uncomfortable, at first, when she’d make reference to his financial situation or offer him support. But she doesn’t consider him a charity case, nor does she expect anything in return. She just happens to have money to spare and he doesn’t.

He shrugs. “How could I say no to that?” he teases, playing it down, but his gratitude is evident.

She smiles and nods; _you’re welcome_.

“Oh,” she says suddenly, looking up from her books. “I thought it would be best if you came to mine beforehand. Otherwise the driver would go to your house first and you’d have to deal with Wells and Monty on your own until you reached my place.

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

+

In the days leading up to prom, the event seems to be the only thing on every student’s mind. Exams are over, and now everyone’s nervous energy needs a new focal point, it seems.

Echo tells them all about her spray tan and nail appointments (with her usual indifference to the fact that _no one cares_ ), Miller tries to get a vote on whether corsages are still a thing (which gets him nowhere, because if there’s one thing their group is good at it’s debating meaningless shit without ever coming to some sort of agreement), even Murphy can’t stop talking about prom, even if that is just to plan how he’s going to sneak alcohol into the venue.

Bellamy also has started sitting with Clarke and Wells. Only at recess though, and not lunch, as that way he can grin devilishly at Murphy and tell him that it’s all a ruse to get closer to Clarke and make it hurt more on prom night and pretend his stomach doesn’t feel like lead when he utters the words.

(“You’re good,” Murphy tells him with a laugh and a clap on the back. _No I’m not_ , Bellamy wants to tell him.)

Monty has also only just started sitting with the group, and there’s something comforting about not being the only new addition. With Clarke and Wells they don’t talk about prom or after parties. Instead they talk about movies, video games and whether or not Avril Lavigne is actually alive.

(“Don’t tell me you’re actually starting to believe this bullshit,” Clarke had begged of him, grinning up at him with a smile that Bellamy couldn’t help reciprocate. “The evidence speaks for itself,” Monty had said mock solemnly. “Avril Lavigne is dead and as been replaced by her doppelganger.”)

Bellamy couldn’t help but get wrapped up in their debates, their excitement and their passion. Even when they talked about things Bellamy really didn’t have an opinion on, like that one time when Wells riled Monty up by insisting that GTA V was the greatest video game of all time and Monty took the entirety of recess taking about the storylines and artistry of other ‘far superior’ games. Bellamy honestly kind of likes GTA—it was one of the few video games he had actually played—but he still found himself getting caught up in Monty’s arguments, occasionally sharing half amused, half confused looks with Clarke. It made him want to invite Miller over, but he figured that would raise Murphy’s suspicions.

He was also getting to know Clarke better, one-on-one. They hung out in the library together after school, and they’d been getting less and less work done because they just couldn’t stop talking.

“Are Wells and Monty actually dating?” Bellamy asks. Clarke looks up from where her head had been buried in her textbook (because they had actually been doing some work for once) and pushes her glasses up while rolling her eyes.

“No, apparently. They’re going to prom together completely platonically.”

“It’s been known to happen, Princess,” he smirks.

She hesitates for a second before quickly recovering and Bellamy wonders if he actually imagined it. “Well obviously. But you’ve seen them—there’s nothing platonic about it.”

“They are pretty flirty.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, well you should try to deal with them alone at lunch. It’s like they forget I’m even there. I spend the whole time throwing up a little in my mouth. Which is especially bad—no one wants to taste cafeteria food a second time around.”

Bellamy scrunches up his nose, laughing. “Gross, Princess.”

“No what’s gross is watching Wells trying to impress Monty with all the obscure Star Wars trivia he knows.”

+

The day of prom, almost everyone takes the day off school. It takes a lot of convincing for Wells and Clarke who are both worried about having an unexplained absence on their report card, but they eventually agree to hang out at Monty’s place, playing video games and board games. Bellamy actually does invite Miller over this time, taking comfort in the fact that Murphy will be unaware. It’s the most fun Bellamy’s had in a while, his cheeks hurting from laughing so much. Clarke sits next to him on the couch and its all too easy to poke her in the ribs to make her lose focus when she’s beating him at Mario Kart or make a pact with her to dominate everyone else during Monopoly.

It sucks when they eventually have to leave—Clarke has to get her hair and make-up done and if Bellamy and Miller don’t want to get stuck at Monty’s for an extra two hours they’ll need to catch the bus now. He hugs Clarke goodbye and tells everyone else that he’ll see them tonight before leaving with Miller.

Bellamy’s in a good mood so he ignores Miller for a while, pretending that he can’t tell that Miller’s thinking hard about something but doesn’t know how to say it.

“Okay go,” Bellamy says, getting bored of watching Miller stare intensely at the rock Bellamy is kicking around.

“What?” Miller asks, barely concentrating (on anything other than the rock, that is).

“What’s on your mind? Shoot.”

Miller looks up at him then and squints. “What are you going to do, Blake?”

Bellamy kind of gets where he’s going with this but he’s not going to make this easy for Miller so instead he says, “Well that clears everything up. Thanks. Not vague at all.”

“What are you going to about Clarke?” Miller asks again, in a no-bullshit tone.

“I’m taking her to prom,” Bellamy says, breaking eye contact.

“ _‘I’m taking her to prom’,”_ Miller mimics with a roll of his eyes. “Shut up. We both know that’s not what’s happening here. Murphy is paying you to make a fool out of your worst enemy. Only she isn’t your worst enemy anymore, is she?”

They get to the bus stop and Bellamy pretends to check the timetable again even though they both know exactly what time the bus is coming. “I’m sure it won’t be that big of a deal.”

“Bellamy, you _like_ her,” Miller insists, sounding frustrated.

“Well, yeah, she’s my friend.”

“She’s not your fucking friend, dumbass. You really like her. You can’t hurt her.”

“That’s not true,” Bellamy snaps. “What do you want from me, Miller? I need the money. It’s for Octavia. Yeah, Clarke might be a little offended when she finds out about the bet. But I’m sure we’ll figure it out. Like I said—we’re _friends_.”

“ _A little offen_ —” Miller cuts himself off and stares at Bellamy in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself? God, you’re really going to go through with this, aren’t you?”

Bellamy glares at Miller; Miller has always been the friend that Bellamy can count on to never ask questions, never pry, why Miller feels the need to interfere now is beyond him. This is Bellamy’s problem, and its all going to work out anyway. Bellamy will make sure Clarke stays unaware enough that she’s not hurt, Bellamy will just make some shit up for Murphy and he will get that money and at the end of the day Octavia will be happy. And that’s all that matters.

“Butt out, Miller. I’ll figure this out.”

Miller only raises his eyebrows at him, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Whatever you say,” he grumbles.

+

Bellamy catches the bus to Clarke’s place to arrive there half an hour before they’re due for photos.

“Good evening, sir,” the bus driver says, smiling and tipping his cap at him as he gets on.

He does feel a little weird, riding the bus all dressed up—he has to remember not to slouch too much so he won’t crease his suit and an old Italian woman starts telling him about how he looks just like her late husband.

When he gets to Clarke’s place, Ms Griffin opens the door. “Oh well don’t you look handsome. You must be Bellamy. I’m Abby,” she says and they shake hands. “Clarke!” she yells then, “Bellamy’s here.”

“Just come upstairs,” he hears Clarke yell back. “I’m not ready yet.”

Abby smiles and steps out of his way.

“I think I’ll just wait at the bottom of the stairs,” he calls back, even as he takes the steps two at a time to meet her. “That way you can have that dramatic entry that every prom movie promised you.”

He’s reached her door now so he can hear her laugh from the other side. “And then what? You’ll stare up at me in awe and then I’ll get nervous because you’re not saying anything? And then I’ll shyly say ‘Well?’? And you’ll just say ‘wow’ really breathlessly?”

“I think you’ve watched more prom movies than me,” he laughs. “But yeah, probably.”

She laughs again. “Sounds good. I’ll just be a minute, I promise.”

Bellamy makes himself at home, sitting on the floor, his back to the wall opposite her door.

She is, to her credit, little more than a minute. When she does step out it goddamn nearly takes his breath away. She’s in a floor length ruby red gown, made of some sort of silky material that glides over her curves. Her bright gold hair is in simple, loose waves that only just brush her collarbones. And when she smiles down at him it makes butterflies spring up in his stomach.

“Well?” she asks, grinning cheekily.

He smiles back her. “Wow,” he breathes, teasing her. He gets up then, raking a hand through his hair. “But seriously, Clarke. You look incredible.”

“So do you,” she says and there’s a distinct blush rising up on her cheeks.

 

Ms Griffin has them pose for what feels like a full on photo-shoot, especially with the directions she’s giving. Between photos she positions their hands, tells them wear to look and even gives them props. Bellamy manages to reign himself in, not wanting to offend Abby, but Clarke is laughing so hard she’s in near tears.

When Octavia finishes her athletics training she rides over on her bike and they take a few photos with her too.

Before they know it, though, the limo is there to pick them up and they’re waving goodbye to Abby and Octavia, the latter speeding along on her bike so she can keep up with the limo for as long as possible.

+

Prom, itself, isn’t all that interesting. The hall is decked out with white clothed tables and blue and gold balloons. They eat satisfactory catered meals and later yell and dance while forty-year old DJ plays music from the current top 50’s (oh and the Cha-Cha Slide because of course). Awards are announced and go to the people everyone expected. For example, Echo wins Best Dressed (and smacks an over-the top kiss on her overage date’s lips before going to collect it), Monty and Jasper win Biggest Bromance, Most Likely To Go To Jail is awarded to Murphy and Clarke wins Most Likely To Become President. Bellamy wins Hottest Guy and definitely _does not_ blush when he walks to the stage to collect it.

The only issue arises when Murphy corners Bellamy on his way to the bathrooms.

“Have you told her yet? About the prank?” he asks.

“No,” Bellamy grits out.

“Well I have sixty smackeroos and my pocket and you’re not getting your grubby hands on them unless you make her cry.”

“I’m not going to make her cry, Murphy.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “Nearly cry. Whatever. Just let me know when you’re about to tell her—I want to see this.”

+

The after party is to be held at Roma Bragg’s house, something Echo bitched about incessantly. (‘ _Roma’s house is way too small. And she’s not letting us bring people from outside of school. It’s going to be such a drag,’_ she’d complained one lunch.)

Close to one hundred students sporadically make their way onto her lawn, lit up with strings of gold fairy lights. Almost immediately music starts pumping and drinks start flowing. There are a few attempts at making speeches, presumably about sticking together and fond memories but the music is too loud and no one cares enough to try and listen.

Most people have changed on their way over. Bellamy now only wears his dress shirt, slightly unbuttoned, paired with old jeans and combat boots. Clarke has tied her dress up and to the side (probably crushing the delicate fabric in the process) and has swapped her heels for a pair of sneakers.

Bellamy grabs the two of them a drink and they make their way outside, away from the sweaty crush on bodies inside.

Despite Echo’s moaning about the size of Roma’ place, Roma actually has a pretty decent sized backyard and they manage to find a quieter space around the side of the property.

Clarke and Bellamy idly chat and drink and it’s so easy to get wrapped up in her, to get caught in their own little bubble. Her curls are slightly ruffled now and skin glows under the soft golden fairy lights. But something in the way she looks up at him from under her eyelashes, all warm fondness, and the way she throws her head back and laughs at his jokes makes him think that maybe, just maybe, they could be more than friends after all this.

They do, eventually, have to leave their little world. It is a party, after all, and socialising is somewhat expected. Clarke gets dragged away by Monty and Wells to dance and Bellamy gets recruited by Miller to be his partner in beer pong against Harper and Murphy. Him and Miller smash it, but Miller massively over-poured the spirits in their cups of mixed drink so the few drinks they have to take get Bellamy well on the way to tipsy. Bellamy is also forced by Echo to be her partner in the next game where they lose epically to the unlikely combo of Anya and Monroe.

All in all, Bellamy is pretty well drunk. His stomach is warm and he is starting to feel his cheeks turn red (thanks to good old Asian flush). And all he can think about is Clarke and her pretty face and how much he wants to kiss her.

 

+

After searching nearly the entirety of Roma’s property, Bellamy finally spots the back of Clarke’s blonde head in the front yard.

“Where were you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere?” he calls, making his way over to her and looping his arm around her shoulders.

She shrugs out from under his arm, which hurts a little but it’s to be expected—its not like they’re best friends or anything, and just because he really wants to kiss her doesn’t mean she feels the same.

“I was with John.”

“John? Oh, _Murphy_. God, you poor soul,” he laughs.

“Yeah,” she says through a clenched jaw. “He’s pretty drunk, actually. Said some interesting things.” She flicks her eyes up to him then and they’re filled with a fiery rage.

It takes a while for his drunken brain to catch up with what she’s insinuating, but when it does his stomach sinks and he reaches out for her. “God, Clarke, no. I—”

She steps out of his reach.

“You know what?” she asks and she’s doing this weird thing where she tries to smile but her eyes are watery and it comes out as more of a grimace. “I should have expected this from you. This is on me, really. Well, good job, Blake, you succeeded in making me feel like shit. And, um,” she jabs her thumb over her shoulder, going for casual but the hurt bleeds through in her voice, “I’m going to head out. But I’m glad I gave you and your friends some entertainment for tonight.” Her voice breaks at the end and he’s left reaching out for her numbly as she tears her way outside.

+

He’s seeing red by the time he storms out into the backyard of Roma’s place.

“Murphy!” he roars and is guided around the side of the house by a somewhat frightened looking girl who clearly just wants him to direct his yelling somewhere else.

Murphy has some guy pushed against the brick wall of the house, his hand under the boy’s shirt and the boy’s mouth attached to Murphy’s neck.

“Murphy,” Bellamy growls, anger boiling deep in his stomach.

“Blake,” Murphy grins lazy. “Love to chat, but I’m kind of busy here. You’re welcome to join, though.”

The boy, for his part, doesn’t even detach himself from Murphy’s neck.

“What did you say to her?” Bellamy demands, his hands curling into fists by his sides.

Murphy sighs. “Say to who, Bell?”

“Clarke. What did you say to Clarke?” Bellamy grinds out.

“Oh, the Princess.” Murphy throws his head back in laughter and the boy moves his lips along the column of his throat. “The truth, Blake. That you were paid to be her date. God, you should’ve seen her face. She looked heartbroken—I almost felt sorry for her. You really got her good, Bellamy.”

Bellamy’s anger flares and he grabs Murphy by his shirt, earning startled eyes from both Murphy and his partner as they are torn apart.

“What is wrong with you?” he roars in Murphy’s face. “Why the _fuck_ would you do that?”

“Why would I do that, Bellamy?” Murphy asks, tampering his shock and slowly slipping back into his calm facade. “This isn’t on me. I didn’t think you’d bring her here. You’re the one who was still toying with her. If anything, I just put her out of her misery.”

“God, Murphy—” Anything he was about to say gets swallowed by his frustration and he shoves Murphy away so that he stumbles back a few steps. Because—this isn’t Murphy’s fault. Yeah, he’s a fuck up, and Bellamy would love nothing more than to beat the shit out of him, but it was Bellamy who took the bet, it was Bellamy who lied to Clarke.

He heads back inside, ignoring Murphy’s outraged calls at his back.

The thick heat of bodies engulfs him as he gets inside but he manages to make his way to the basement.

“Miller,” he says, grabbing the boy’s attention with a hand on his shoulder. “You drove, didn’t you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Miller fumbles, trying to discretely take his arm from around Bryan’s shoulder. “Why, what’s up?”

“Do you know where Wislan Park is? Clarke’s house?”

“Yeah,” Miller says slowly, frowning up at Bellamy. “Is there—”

“You haven’t been drinking, have you? You can drive me there, right?”

Miller looks to Bryan, confused, before looking back to Bellamy, the hesitance clear in his eyes. “I don—”

“You can come back straight after. Just—do me a solid.”

Miller sighs and pats Bryan on the shoulder. “Okay, fine,” he tells Bellamy. And then to Bryan, “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

He starts to get up from the couch but Bryan pulls Miller down into a scorching kiss that makes Bellamy feel like he’s intruding. “Okay.”

A little dazed, Miller stands up, nodding to himself. “Okay, yeah. Cool.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, still nodding. “Alright. That’s—yep. Bye.”

Bellamy claps Miller on the shoulder as they head out but that’s about all the comfort he can manage with his mind swirling the way it is.

“Can I ask why you’re so desperate to get to Clarke’s house?” Miller questions as his car startles to life.

“No.”

“Okay, sweet. Guessed as much.”

+

Clarke’s mum answers the door to him and then promptly shuts it back in his face.

“Ms Griffin, please,” he begs, using the intercom.

“I don’t think she wants to speak to you, of all people right now,” crackles Ms Griffin’s heated voice through the line.

“Look, I know, okay? But I have some explaining to do.”

Clearly not satisfied with their means of communication, Ms Griffin wrenches the door open again, her stance defensive and her eyes livid. “Damn right you have some explaining to do. Maybe you can start with why my daughter came home tonight a crying mess, well before curfew? I may not know what you did to my girl, but if you think I’m going to let you speak to her you have another thing coming.”

“I’m not going to lie to you, ma’am—I messed up. I don’t want Clarke’s forgiveness here. I hurt her, but I think if I could just _explain_ , I could ease some of her pain. I’m—I’m not trying to clear my name, if she never speaks to me again then… then I understand. But this is for her.”

Abby Griffin’s jaw is clenched as she stares him down for a minute before making a decisive step aside. “You have ten minutes.”

 

Ms Griffin directs him the Griffin’s back garden. In the centre of the garden is a raised platform, like a round wooden stage or a gazebo without a roof, surrounded by a rock garden. Stretched out on the platform is a small figure, looking up to the stars.

“Wait here,” Ms Griffin murmurs to him.

Clarke sits up as her mother approaches, her eyes turning from lost to furious as she notices him standing on her back porch, illuminated only by a motion-detecting light. The two women speak in passionate but hushed whispers for what feels like eons before Clarke determinately rolls her shoulders back, her eyes stone, and her mother makes her way back to Bellamy.

“She will talk with you. You’re one lucky boy,” is all she says before marching inside.

With Abby gone, everything is quiet. There’s the faint sound of bugs chirping and the softness of the breeze ruffling tree branches, but neither Bellamy nor Clarke make a sound. Clarke is a fortress that Bellamy hesitantly approaches. He can tell she’s trying hard to keep eye contact with him even though she doesn’t want to. Even as the moonlight glints off the wetness on her cheeks, she stares coldly at him, her jaw clenched. A mix of pride and guilt rise up in him, rolling around in his stomach and turning his insides to whitewash. The thoughts ‘ _that’s my warrior princess_ ’ and ‘ _you did this to her’_ both battling for victory.

“Clarke,” he starts, voice smaller than it’s ever been, “I don’t know exactly what Murphy said to you but—”

“How about I fill you in then,” she bites. “In front of a _group of people_ John-fucking-Murphy told me that he was paying you to be my date. That it was a bet—some sort of joke. Well ha fucking ha,” she snarls, standing up. “Isn’t just so _funny_ to play with people? To _humiliate_ them? Hilarious, right? You know I thought—” she falters and she tries to regain her composure but he _knows_ her. He knows that she’s holding back tears, that she’s hurt. And it takes all his self-control not to just throw caution to the wind and just hold her. “—I thought we were friends.” Her voice is smaller now and it’s painful to listen to. “I just, I thought you liked me. Even only a little bit.”

“Clarke—”

“No,” she interrupts. “Do you know how fucking stupid I looked? They all just stared at me like-like I needed their _pity_. And do you know what I did? I _laughed_. I fucking laughed and said ‘I know’. I tried to pretend I was in on the joke but, _fuck_ , it was so obvious I was lying.” She’s definitely crying now, her eyes full and shining like glass.

He breaks then, his throat becoming tight and his eyes pricking with tears. “I’m so sorry, Clarke,” he manages, his voice broken. “I’m so sorry.”

She squares her jaw again, as if there’s not an escaped tear gliding its way down her cheek. “Sorry for what? For being an asshole?”

“Yes. And I’m sorry for hurting you. I fucked up.”

“What did you think was going to happen?” she spits. “Was it just about the money? Because you could have asked me for some. Or did you really want to embarrass me?”

He did think about it—asking Clarke for the money to buy Octavia’s shoes. But his pride got in the way. Because this was different; different from when she paid for the limo or bought him something from a vending machine. In those cases she was a friend shouting for a friend, but if she’d just given him money it would have been charity. She would be paying for Octavia, and Bellamy was supposed to be the one providing for Octavia. At least Murphy was getting something out of it; he was getting to torture Bellamy and Clarke.

“No, Clarke, no I didn’t want that. I really thought I could figure it all out. But I fucked up. And I hurt you. And that’s the last thing I wanted to do.”

He takes a step closer to her and by some miracle she doesn’t step away.

“If you need time, I get it. But I want you to know that I really like you, Clarke. And I can’t apologise enough.”

She looks into his eyes for a long moment, as if searching for answers, before looking down at her hands. Softly she says, “I think I would like some time.”

He nods. “You know where to find me.”

+

Days pass that feel like years. Bellamy pretends everything is normal—he skates with Miller, goes to the dumb parties that Echo or Murphy want him to, picks up the seasonal work he does at a department store and cooks for his sister. But at the same time he begins to feel the weight of losing Clarke. He hasn’t seen her in two weeks, hasn’t even received a text, and it’s feeling pretty dire at this point.

So to say he’s surprised to open his door to Clarke Griffin one Sunday morning would be an understatement.

“Clarke?” he manages to ask, his throat dry. He’s becoming more aware of how he must look—he’s still in his long flannel pyjama pants, his hair defying gravity by sticking up at all angles and he’s probably squinting seeing as he left his glasses somewhere on the kitchen counter but really didn’t want to put his contacts in yet.

“Hey, Bellamy,” she smiles. She’s wearing a navy cap over her cropped blonde hair, a big yellow jumper that covers her shorts and black and white converse; her typical ‘ten-year-old that never outgrew its style’ look.

“What, uh, what are you doing here?”

She looks down at her hands, tugging at her too-long sleeves. “Octavia visited me. Gave me a good talking to.” She pauses and looks away. “It made me realise some things.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t send her over.”

She laughs. “Don’t worry she made that pretty clear. I-uh, she said you were moping.”

“I wasn’t _moping_ ,” he says, defensive. And he honestly didn’t think he was. Yeah, this whole Clarke situation had been on his mind but he thought he had been doing a good job of just being himself.

“I was. Moping, that is,” she admits and it sends something fluttering in his chest.

“You were?”

She laughs, and looks back down at her hands. “I kind of missed you,” she admits, looking back up into his eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I missed you too.”

He can see something hopeful blooming in her eyes but she just tugs at her cap. “Octavia wasn’t the only one to talk to me. Monty, actually, had a lot of things to say. He reckons I have a crush on you.”

“Oh,” is all he can manage to say.

“He’s not wrong, which is even worse. I mean I really shouldn’t—”

“Clarke,” he interrupts and she looks at him with wide eyes. “I have a big, stupid crush on you.”

A pause and then: “Oh.”

“So if you’d like to stop talking I’d like to kiss you,” he says, stepping forward.

“I’d like to stop talking.”

Stepping in to kiss Clarke should make him nervous—he’s spent over two weeks imagining it, after all. But instead it’s effortless to grip her face between his hands and pull her lips to his. It’s easy press his mouth over hers and move with her. It’s so simple to move his hands to her waist and pull her flush against him.

“Excuse me,” a voice sounds from behind them and Bellamy groans, refusing to pull away even as Clarke’s laugh ghosts over his face. “You’re hurting my eyes.”

“Go away, O,” he demands.

“You should be thanking me,” she says, smug. “But I need to get through the door and you guys are kind of being the grossest roadblock ever.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes before reluctantly pulling away from Clarke. “Yeah thanks for interfering with my personal life. Much appreciated.”

“I know you _sound_ sarcastic but I think you really mean that,” Octavia retorts, smiling slyly. “Anyways, see ya’ later, lovebirds.”

“She’s never going to let me live that down, you know,” he tells Clarke once Octavia has skipped out the front door.

She smiles up at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “That seems like a you problem, not a me problem. Now where’s your bedroom?”

+

If you’d asked Bellamy a couple months ago what dating Clarke Griffin would be like he probably wouldn’t have thought of this. He wouldn’t say anything about watching her soccer games or trying to teach her how to skate. He wouldn’t talk about versing her in video games with her feet in his lap. He wouldn’t have imagined how much fun they’d have when their friends merged into one group, playing drinking games and listening to music.

Maybe, if you asked Bellamy Blake back then what dating Clarke Griffin would be like he might have said something like, “his worst nightmare.” But that Bellamy didn’t know this Clarke. But now that he does, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> well that ending was absolute corn! anyways i hope you liked it. this took me waaaay to long to write and i'm not even sure it's coherent. blah blah comments and kudos. k love you bye!


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